


Why Do Pigs Have Blankets?

by LogicGunn



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M, Moping Rodney, Team, Torren being cute as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28242357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicGunn/pseuds/LogicGunn
Summary: It’s still dark when Rodney wakes up at 0600, the never-ending winter season engendered by their latitude on New-New-Lantea having fallen, finally, momentarily in sync with the Northern Hemisphere of Earth.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 25
Kudos: 83





	Why Do Pigs Have Blankets?

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas!

It’s still dark when Rodney wakes up at 0600, the never-ending winter season engendered by their latitude on New-New-Lantea having fallen, finally, momentarily in sync with the Northern Hemisphere of Earth. Rodney fumbles with his tablet to turn off the alarm, the screen an unwelcome brightness assaulting his eyes. He swipes at it until the cheerful beeping goes quiet, then rolls onto his back in the middle of the large, empty bed, scrubbing his jaw with his hand and yawning wide and loud in the silence of the room. 

He really wants to stay in bed today. He could call in, sleep in late and let Radek cradle the science department in his capable hands. Radek’s more than earned his shot at leadership, would be well placed to take over so that Rodney can cash in one of his annual leave days. But there are simulations to run and personnel files to update, and if he took the day off he’d end up spending it in the lab anyway. Might as well be there in an official capacity; it’s not like declaring that he was on leave would stop the more incompetent members of his department from bothering him with inane and endless questions. 

Huffing with the effort, Rodney drags himself out of bed. His shower is brisk, perfunctory, and his shave even more so. He might have missed a few spots, but he can’t bring himself to care. He dresses in yesterday’s uniform, kicking his worn boxers under the bed because there is no one there to nag him to put them in the laundry basket on the other side of the room. When Teyla radios him to ask if he’s coming for breakfast he can’t say no to her, not even on a day like today, so he shoves his feet in his boots and grabs his tablet from the dresser as he heads out, leaving the bed unmade just because he can. 

* * *

“Good morning, Rodney,” says Teyla, one hand draped around Torren in her lap and the other wrapped around a hot cup of tea. 

Rodney drops his tray down on the table and forces out a _good morning Teyla,_ the best he can do this early in the day. Teyla is neither put off nor offended by his sullen manner, and she smiles at him over her tea as Ronon joins them at the table, his plate piled high with reconstituted eggs and bacon. 

“Morning,” Ronon says to both of them, and he starts shovelling his breakfast into his mouth with brisk efficiency. 

Rodney has little appetite this morning, he chews on his cold toast but needs his coffee to wash it down and stop it sticking in his throat. Teyla and Ronon start up a conversation, and Rodney reaches over the table to take Torren so that Teyla can have her breakfast in peace. Torren’s hands are sticky and his face is rosy-cheeked. He’s happy in Rodney’s arms, joyful and care-free in the way only young children can be. His only concerns are being loved and touched and fed regularly. Rodney approves whole-heartedly of giving him all three, even today when his heart isn’t truly in it. He lets Torren nibble on what’s left of his toast while he holds him close and breaths in the powdery scent of his head and hair, a side bonus to the stores of baby shampoo that Woolsey successfully persuaded the IOA to allow as a trading item when they returned to the Pegasus galaxy. 

“To’st!” says Torren, and he offers his slobbery and soggy crusts for Rodney to eat. There was a time that Rodney would have baulked at the very thought, but those days are long gone and Torren's spit doesn’t disgust him as much as it should. He lets Torren feed him a crust, humming at the boy’s glee. Teyla’s been teaching him to share, and he does so at every possible opportunity no matter how big or small or edible his possessions, relishing the positive feedback he gets from every member of the expedition, none of them grumbling even when they have to seek out Teyla to covertly give back whatever precious relic of the day that Torren’s given away. Rodney’s been given all manner of things these past few weeks: half-eaten French fries; a twinkie wrapper; leaves from the mainland; one of Teyla’s Earth-made underwire bras; and Rabbit, Torren’s favourite hand-me-down from Maddie, floppy eared and missing one eye. 

It’s Christmas Eve, and in the bright light of the mess hall Rodney can see snow falling through the window, a silent rush of gentle flakes hurtling at the walls of the city and building up in all the crevices. It makes him feel cold, no matter that he has a living, breathing hot water bottle wriggling in his lap. Realising that he doesn’t have Rodney’s full attention, Torren stands on Rodney’s thighs and grasps his face in between his two hands, smooshing his cheeks together and pouting out his lips. 

“Uncle Rob-nee!” he says, sternly, and Rodney turns his attention back to where it belongs. 

“Torren,” he says simply. 

Torren pats Rodney on the top on his head. “Rabbit’s innawash,” he says, quickly. 

Rodney can’t make head or tail of Torren’s jumbled articulation. “Rabbit’s...what?” 

“Innawash!” 

“I don’t understand.” 

Teyla takes pity on Rodney and reaches over for Torren. “Rabbit’s in the laundry,” she says. “Rabbit got dirty.” 

“Poooooooooo!” yells Torren waving his arms, like his bodily excretions are the best thing in the world. 

Teyla doesn’t seem surprised by this outburst. “Yes, indeed,” she says, wiping Torren’s face with a soft, rose-coloured cloth. “We had a little accident. But Rabbit will be back later today.” 

“Want rabbit now,” sulks Torren, and Rodney can feel a temper tantrum coming along, so he makes his excuses and busses his tray, heading out of the mess and down the corridor as fast as his legs will carry him. He doesn’t notice Ronon following him until he gets to the transporter outside the mess hall. “Something you need, Ronon?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Why do pigs have blankets?” 

“What?” 

“Sergeant Campbell was talking about pigs in blankets like they were important. I know what pigs are, but why do they have blankets?” 

Rodney rolls his eyes and presses the map location for the labs. They exit the transporter and Rodney explains in great depth the British-Canadian concept of bacon-wrapped sausages to Ronon as they walk to the main lab. They both concede that meat wrapped in meat is the very best type of food there is, and Rodney agrees to introduce Ronon to the aforementioned pigs in blankets tomorrow at dinner. It’s not until Ronon leaves him at the door to the lab that Rodney realises it was all a distraction technique and not a serious question at all. 

* * *

“Doctor McKay, I-” 

“Not now.” 

“But-” 

“Busy. Go bother Radek.” 

The endless interruptions are really getting on Rodney’s nerves today. He’s trying to immerse himself in his power grid simulations, but every five minutes someone approaches him with yet another question whose answer could be easily found without the assistance of the _head of the department._ It’s his own fault, he knew being in the lab would be like this, but he can’t help but feel more and more irked with every set of footsteps that approaches. Radek’s running interference as best he can, but he has his own simulations to get done before tomorrow, which is both Christmas and a mandatory rest day. It’s pure chance that they fall on the same day; with Woolsey still in charge, mandatory rest days are scheduled in every fourteen days, and with the rolling calendar it just happens to land on tomorrow. 

Rodney tried to get out of tomorrow, both the rest day and the Christmas hoo-ha, but Woolsey put his foot down and told him in no uncertain terms that participation wasn’t optional, especially for the heads of departments, and short of the Wraith appearing on long-range sensors Rodney was to spend the day doing something frivolous and enjoying the festivities. When Rodney offered to man the long-range sensors to let everyone in Ops have the day off, Woolsey manhandled him out of his office and closed the door on his ass. He later found out from Chuck that the ops personnel are volunteering two hours each of their time on the sensors so that they can all enjoy Christmas Day with the rest of the expedition. Rodney tries to slip himself into the rota, but Chuck’s channelling Judas and informs Woolsey of the breach. The tongue lashing that follows has an air of sympathy that makes Rodney squirm in Woolsey’s visitor chair. 

* * *

Woolsey cancels senior staff so Rodney finds he has time on his hands in the afternoon. He debates whether to get the personnel files updated or run routine maintenance on the ZPM interface, but he finds himself wandering the city instead. The festive cheer has spilled out of the mess hall and into the corridors, tinsel and lights and hanging baubles on any surface that can hold them. Christmas tunes are being played behind closed doors, Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra longing for their White Christmas, several versions of O’ Holy Night, and even Mariah Carey’s unpalatable over-singing is screeching out of the Marine Rec Room. 

Rodney takes a turn through a door and steps unexpectedly in the gym where several members of the military are getting in their PT. He’s not sure what led him here of all places, Rodney’s known for many things and physical fitness is not one of them. He steps back, intending to slip out before anyone notices him, but instead of opening the door, he backs up into the newly-promoted Lieutenant Stackhouse who steadies Rodney with his hands and steps out in front of him. 

“Hey, Doc, want me to spot you?” says Stackhouse. 

“I...uh...I was just leaving actually,” says Rodney. 

“You sure? I’m training a group of botanists in half an hour. I can fit you in before they arrive.” 

Stackhouse is clearly misinterpreting Rodney’s reluctance as one of politeness, not discomfort. 

“Another time,” says Rodney, and this time when he steps back the door opens for him and he can turn and high-tail it down the corridor and as far away from the gym as he can get. The next door he finds leads to a balcony, so he steps outside to get away from everyone, forgetting that it’s a blizzard out. He slips on the cold, snowy ground, would fall right on his ass if two strong hands didn’t reach out to catch him. Rodney grabs onto the muscular biceps and lets himself be pulled upright and supported until he gets his footing. 

“Easy, McKay,” says Evan as he lets Rodney go. “It’s too cold out here to be out in your uniform.” 

Rodney glances at Evan, takes in the sensible winter coat and fingerless gloves, the discarded charcoal on the ground. “You’re out sketching in this?!” he exclaims as he rubs his arms furiously. 

“Sure am. I’m working on something abstract. Do you want to see?” 

Rodney shakes his head. “You know what? Never mind. Forget I asked. I shouldn’t be out here in this weather.” 

He lets Evan help him back inside, then palms the door closed between them. What is it going to take to get a moment alone in this place? The very last thing he wants to do is go to his empty quarters, and clearly he’s losing his mind if he’s wandering outside without a jacket. What he needs is respite from all the Christmas cheer. Somewhere he can drown his sorrows and- suddenly he has it. The shooting range will be Christmas free – last year someone got hit by friendly fire when someone else’s wrist got caught by overhanging tinsel. Woolsey put an immediate ban on mixing anything sparkly with anything that involves ammunition. God bless red tape. 

* * *

There’s no one there when Rodney enters the range; when Rodney picked up a practice M9, the quartermaster said everyone else is preoccupied with the festivities and no-one has been to sign out a gun since yesterday. Rodney relishes in the silence as he pulls on some standard-issue ear protection which would surely block out even the most persistent of sounds. He sets up at the far end of the room in the very last lane, hanging up his paper target and pulleying it to a set distance. Ford used to say he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, but Rodney’s improved over the years and can hit his targets with over 80% accuracy even when they’re at maximum distance. It’s a shame that it doesn’t translate well to moving targets, but his team only ever expects him to lay covering fire, not lethal headshots. 

Rodney adjusts his body into the stance that’s been drilled into him over and over and over again - _"Relax your shoulders...that’s it. Now, take aim...”_ He inhales, holds, and fires on the exhale. Inhale, hold, fire. Inhale, hold- A noise distracts him from his third shot and it goes wide. 

“Goddamnit.” 

Rodney pulls off his ear protection, sucks in a breath to berate the asshole that distracted him when he was aiming a gun, but lets it slowly out when he sees the trespasser is Laura Cadman, Captain of Carson’s heart. 

“Sorry, Rodney,” she says with a smirk, laying her own M9 down on the counter of one of the lanes and pinning up her target. 

“Don’t-” begins Rodney, but he pauses. He wants to shout at her, wants to take his misery and his loneliness and throw it in her smug face, but it’s _Laura_ and despite it all, she’s become something of a close friend this past year. Besides, she’s the type of woman to respond to a verbal assault with an uppercut or some high-grade C4. “Don’t...worry about it. Maybe next time keep it down?” 

He doesn’t mean to end on a question, but somehow whenever he’s around Laura he turns into a valley-girl and everything needs an inflexion. 

“You hiding from Doctor Z?” asks Laura, picking up her ear protectors. 

“I’m hiding from everyone,” admits Rodney. 

“Fair enough,” says Laura, and she covers her ears and picks up her gun, firing it off and emptying the clip in ten seconds. Rodney takes solace in her ability to be present but not smothering and turns back to his target. Ear protection on, shoulders relaxed, and...exhale. 

* * *

Rodney doesn’t want to eat dinner in the mess, wouldn’t, except that Ronon comes to collect him from the labs at 1930 and shuts his laptop screen, effectively killing the program that Rodney was running. 

“Come on, McKay. You have to be hungry by now.” 

Rodney wants to argue that he has enough powerbars to see him through the next couple of days, but just as he can’t deny Teyla, he can’t deny Ronon. There’s too much water under the bridge with his team, too much history. They’re as thick as thieves, even when they’re not complete, not whole, and if Ronon wants him to come to dinner enough that he’ll brave the labs on Christmas Eve to retrieve him, well he can’t say no to that. 

They make it to the mess just as the dinner rush hits. Rodney scowls at the size of the queue to the serving station, but Ronon puts his strong hands on Rodney’s shoulders and steers him away from the queue and over to one of the tables where Teyla’s sitting, Torren on her knees, talking with Radek and Evan. There’s an assortment of bowls on the table full of finger foods and dips; hummus with julienned home-grown vegetables, cold cuts of various Pegasus meats, and pastries filled with the spicy mince of New-New-Athos' almost sheep. 

It’s a welcome sight, all that native Pegasus food, a sign of the goodwill and diplomatic intent of dozens of worlds that have banded together since the Wraith defeat was total and complete. Interplanetary trade is at an all-time high, and the Athosians have often found themselves to be the brokers between cautious peoples that all have something the others want. They share a lot of that goodwill with Atlantis, and so the city is reaping the rewards of its fundamental role in wiping the Wraith from existence. That they respond quickly to any cries for help of peoples and planets targeted by lone Wraith stragglers has enamoured them to a lot of people’s hearts, but Rodney is very aware of the dangers of the potential for a colonial mindset of an expedition primarily staffed by white North Americans and Europeans. They are fortunate indeed that Woolsey holds Teyla’s opinions in high regard, trusting her to steer Atlantis clear of the most obvious pitfalls and promoting the importance of native knowledge and folklore. And food. 

Rodney sits down at the table, determined to ignore the lone empty space and instead enjoy his dinner but it’s so hard and only getting harder with each day that passes. Torren’s a welcome distraction from his mood, brandishing his rabbit and babbling about his day, pulling yucky faces at the vegetables and yummy faces at the hummus and pastries. The other adults at the table are engaged in conversation, but none of them forces Rodney to do anything but listen passively. If he had anything to say, he would, but Evan’s waxing lyrical about the ‘jumper upgrades that Radek programmed and Rodney had very little to do with that, having finally learned how to delegate and not need to breathe down the necks of his people at all times. 

Rodney’s swallowing the last of his third pastry when Torren stands up on Teyla’s legs and reaches out his chubby arms for someone behind Rodney, crying out “Uncle John! Uncle John!” Rodney turns around, his heart thumping in his chest, and looks behind him to see John standing there, a big grin on his face and the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. 

“Darn,” he says to Rodney. “I was trying to sneak up on ya." 

Rodney’s slow to respond, his body like treacle, but he’s suddenly filled with a feeling of warmth and absolute elation. John’s back early, he’s home, and in one piece, not five. The relief is palpable, and sure, it was only a trip to Earth, but he was supposed to be taking the Daedalus back and it’s not due for another three weeks. Rodney had been seriously dreading Christmas without him. He stands, pushing his chair out with his knee and lets John bundle him up in his warm/strong/tight arms, burrowing his face down in John’s neck and wrapping his own arms around John's narrow waist. 

“You’re here!” Rodney mumbles into John’s t-shirt. 

“I am,” says John. 

“You’re home!” 

“Yeah, buddy, I am. I take it you’re happy to see me?” 

Rodney pulls back but John doesn't let go, his hands cradling Rodney’s shoulder blades, thumbs smoothing over the fabric of his jacket, completely indifferent to the fact that almost the entire expedition is in the mess and they are in plain sight. 

“I might be,” says Rodney, and he reluctantly lets go of John to let him pick up Torren, who’s crying out in joy so loud that they’re making a bit of a scene. John holds Torren in his arms, making _hmmm_ noises at the endless stream of babble, but his eyes are firmly on Rodney over the top of Torren’s head. 

“It is good that you are back John,” says Teyla, and Rodney doesn’t miss the amusement in her eyes, nor that of Ronon when he says “What she said.” He knows it’s at his expense but he can’t bring himself to care, such is his relief at seeing John. 

Evan says “Welcome home, sir,” and gives John a sloppy salute that John returns by pressing Torren’s waving hand to his forehead, and Radek kicks out John’s chair, the one he always sits in, right next to Rodney. 

“How are you guys?” asks John, pressing a kiss to Torren’s cheek and letting him lean in for a cuddle as he sits down. 

“We are very glad to see you,” says Radek, pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. “Rodney has been most...difficult...since you left.”

“I have not,” snaps Rodney feeling his face heat up. “You lot have been acting less than the intergalactic renowned scientists that I know you to be.”

“Only because you have been letting us get away with it in your teenage angst.” 

Rodney’s about to respond to the accusation, he has an entire spiel ready to verbally lacerate his friend, but the feel of John’s hand on his thigh quietens his tongue and calms his beating heart. 

“Well,” says John. “I’m back now, so it should be business as usual.” 

“Except for tomorrow,” says Ronon. “Your Earth religions don’t make much sense, but Christmas I approve of.” 

“Kiss’mass!” yells Torren at the top of his lungs. 

Teyla stands and reaches over to take Torren from John’s arms. “I think it’s Bee Eee Dee time for my little man,” she says. Torren wraps his arms around her neck as she presses her head to John’s. “We are all glad you have come home.” 

John’s ears reddens at her touch and her worlds, but he manages a “Thanks Teyla” in his _aw-shucks_ kind of way, patting her on the arm affectionately. Ronon bumps Torren with his fist eliciting a howl of pleasure from the little guy and when Teyla tells him to say goodnight to everyone he grins the grin of a boy with a master plan. 

“G’night Uncle John, g’night Uncle Rob-nee, g’night Uncle Row-row, g’night-” 

“Speed it up, little guy,” says Ronon. 

“G’night Uncle Ev’n and g’night Uncle Rad-icky!” 

“Night Torren,” the men all say in unison, and Teyla does her best to distract him with the pretty lights as she drags him away from the fun-loving men in his life. John stares wistfully at their retreating backs, then shakes his head and grabs a pastry. 

“It’s nice to see the city still standing,” he says with his mouth full. 

“You were only gone a week, sir,” says Evan, with a grin. 

“Might as well have been a month,” mutters Radek with a knowing look at Rodney. 

“How was Earth?” asks Evan before Rodney can get even one good dig in. 

John shrugs. “Eh, you know,” he says. “You’ve seen one IOA meeting you’ve seen them all.” 

“I am fortunate to have never been subjected to such...horror,” says Radek. 

“Maybe I’ll send you in my stead to the next one,” says Rodney, and John’s hand tightens on his thigh just a little. 

“Oh no, my friend,” says Radek. “That pleasure is all yours.” 

“Don’t you go getting any ideas, sir,” says Evan, holding his hands up as though to ward off evil. 

“I don’t know, Major,” says John. “You’re an absolute pro at second contact situations. Now that I’ve laid the groundwork...” 

“And on that note,” says Radek, standing, “I’m off to the labs.” 

Rodney turns in his chair. “Don’t forget to tell Simpson to-” 

“I won’t,” says Radek as he walks away. 

“And check on the-” 

“I will,” Radek calls over his shoulder. 

“And don’t let-” 

Radek turns and starts walking backwards. “Rodney, my friend. Enjoy your evening.” 

And with that, Radek exits the mess. Ronon reaches over the table to grab the hummus/veg platter, pulling it across the table until it sits right in front of him. “What are you two still doing here?” he asks around a mouthful of not-carrot and hummus. 

It takes Rodney a moment to realise that Ronon’s talking about him and John, long enough that John’s already standing and tugging surreptitiously at his sleeve. Rodney stands up so fast he almost knocks his chair over. “Right, well, we’ll just-” 

“Goodnight Doc, Sir,” says Lorne, reaching over to the platter to snag some carrot sticks. 

“Night,” says Ronon, winking at Rodney. Rodney’s feels the flush creeping up his neck and cheeks as he turns and follows John out of the mess, tripping up over his own feet in his haste as they enter the transporter. John catches him with both hands and pulls him into an embrace. 

“Easy there,” he says, concern etched into his furrowed brow. Rodney straightens up and presses the map for the residential corridor, luxuriating in the feel of John pressed against him for the brief seconds it takes to transport them several floors and half a city away. John doesn’t let go when the doors open, just slides his hands down Rodney’s arms and takes him by the wrist as they rush down the corridor to their quarters. The doors are still open when John leans him back against the wall and kisses him, his mouth gentle despite the strength in his arms holding him close and tight. 

“I have...hmm...a gift for you,” says John between kisses. 

“Yes, I can feel it,” says Rodney, dropping his hands onto John’s ass and pulling their hips together. 

“Not that...I mean, yes that, but...oh...I have something in my bag...” 

“Later,” insists Rodney, lifting the hem of John’s t-shirt and pulling it over his head. “How did you persuade them to send you back through the gate?” 

John grins widely, unbuckling Rodney’s belt. “Colonel Mitchell is in charge for the festive period. He said to consider it a Christmas present.” 

“That’s awfully-” Rodney’s t-shirt gets caught on his head and it takes the two of them to pull it off. “-nyah...nice of him.” 

“Mmmm.” 

Rodney’s hands skim John's ribs, his fingers tucking into his waistband and quickly plucking the buttons free while John attacks Rodney’s fly with a fierce kind of haste. Too late they both realise their mistake, their respective BDUs getting caught up by their boots. John growls, deep and low, before pulling Rodey into him and body-checking them down onto the mattress of their double bed, cushioning Rodney from the impact of their landing with both arms. He kisses him hungrily, using one hand to bend one of Rodney’s legs at the knee and settling down in the cradle of his hips. Rodney raises up in answer to John’s questioning thrust, and they set up a frantic pace as they grind against each other, friction bringing them quickly to a short, sharp release. 

When John rolls to the side, Rodney immediately misses his weight. He follows him, curling on his side, their booted feet dangling off the end of the bed. It feels faintly ridiculous to be lying there half dressed with his dick out, but it’s hard to be embarrassed when John’s in the same state. John looks positively rakish in the post-coital glow. Rodney knows that he himself will look flushed and blotchy and ridiculous, and he can’t quite bring himself to believe that he gets to have this, that he gets to have _John_ like this, can touch his skin, kiss his lips, make him moan and groan and grunt and- 

“Your thoughts are loud,” says John, sliding his arm under Rodney’s head and pulling him in close. 

“You’re too hot,” says Rodney. 

John ducks his head. “You gotta stop saying things like that, buddy.” 

“You know you are.” 

“I’m just me.” 

“It’s positively sinful, and you are the best kind of present. I can’t decide if I’ve been really good or exceptionally naughty that I get you home for Christmas.” 

“Bit of both?” 

Rodney kisses John’s grinning lips. 

“Merry Christmas John.” 

“Merry Christmas Rodney.” 


End file.
